


What's In A Name

by akirakurosawa



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Tolkien Gen Week - Freeform, Unreliable Narrator, cameos of probably everyone you can think of from YoT to FA, canon level angst, i aint even sorry, its important because of the impact on her character, most of the mentioned characters have non-speaking roles, no beta we die like High Kings of Noldor, relationship is canonical and not at all explicit, this got very long because Galadriel is 8k years old and thinks a lot, this is 12 k of galadriels thoughts on her and all her names, unreliable narrator as in she has some very conflicted feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:27:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25167706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akirakurosawa/pseuds/akirakurosawa
Summary: Lady Galadriel of Lothlórien stands on the helm of the ship taking her to Valinor, and she remembers.(OR: She has been called many names in the course of eight millenia.)***Written for Tolkien Gen Week 2020: Day 4 - Solo.
Relationships: Celeborn/Galadriel | Artanis, Galadriel | Artanis & Everyone
Comments: 16
Kudos: 47
Collections: Tolkien Gen Week 2020





	What's In A Name

**Author's Note:**

> Hi y'all!
> 
> This was written for Tolkien Gen Week 2020 Day 4 - Solo.
> 
> I'm way too excited to post this. It's the first thing I wrote with explicit intention of publishing since 2015, and I'm legit shaking here. This is unbetaed, bcs my beta is a busy-busy-beautiful-bee, and if you notice mistakes, like, don't let me know yet? I will go through it again at some point, but I legit revised it at least 10 times and words don't mean anything anymore. WORDS HAVE NO MEANING TO ME ANYMORE. 
> 
> Anyways. I have some people to acknowledge and thank here.
> 
> First of all - thank you to [Tolkien Gen Week](https://tolkiengenweek.tumblr.com/) for existing and giving me inspiration to write.  
> Thanks to [starlightwalking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/) on ao3 and  
> [arofili](https://arofili.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, for hosting this amazing event.
> 
> An immensely huge thanks to the amazing  
> [ArvenaPeredhel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArvenaPeredhel/) who is a life-saver, amazing in her knowledge of Tolkien's lore and language, and doesn't mind my questions about etymology of Quenya. Her Silmarillion Starter Pack: Quenya Names Edition is obligatory reading for anyone that has issues with the gazillion names Tolkien decided to give every character (and yet somehow Fingon doesn't have an amilessë -.-). She is also an amazing writer and everything she wrote is astounding, so go read her stories asap, especially If you're into Russingon!
> 
> And finally, all my love goes to [GWH aka my BFF5EVA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GWH), because I love her like RLB, and my creative and regular life would've looked very different if she weren't here. Love you, bae.

It was the best of times, for peace for all races has finally come to stay longer than a blink of an eye. It was the worst of times, for the time of Elves is over, and they have no place in Endor anymore.

Lady Galadriel of Lothlórien stands on the helm of the ship taking her to Valinor, and she remembers.

Thoughts swirl around in her head, resembling the movements of seas of Ulmo around their ship. Galadriel can no less catch the thread of her thoughts than she can discern the pattern of individual waves. Her mind is still sharp, still ever-present - she knows she has not lost _that_ strength along with all the other losses she bore throughout the long Ages. The currents in front of her reflect the rushes of her mind; she cannot comprehend them all at once. She lets her eyes roam in the distance, unfocused, as she observes the patterns in the corner of her eye. Her mind turns and twists and turns again; she forces coherent thoughts out, listens for the fragments of whispers instead.

Galadriel breathes in, she breathes out, and catches a tendril of thought.

_Who are you?_

She exhales softly, amused despite herself.

_Who am I, indeed._

A question of existence, a question of perspective, a question of _everything_. The ultimate question; the simplest one; the hardest one.

The question Galadriel has not needed to contemplate for a long time, because she knew who she was, and she knew it clearly and uncompromisingly. Now, however, times have changed. Now, she will be forced to think about who she is.

Galadriel breathes in again and looks around. Olórin sits on the other end of the ship, his smile gentle as he speaks to both Bilbo and Frodo Baggins. Elrond Peredhel, her daughter’s husband, is standing next to them, and his gaze, roaming the horizon, reaches much further than hers, his grey eyes turned back to Ennorath. She knows his sorrows intimately. He left all three of his children in Middle-Earth, with no guarantee he would ever see any of them again. Arwen Undómiel is lost to them all for good, as her likeness in both visage and temperament to Galadriel’s once-friend lent itself to another similarity. Both daughters of twilight have, in pursuing their hearts, chosen to walk the Mortal path. Elrond’s face is marred with grief, clearly showing the combined weight of his hope to see his sons again and the finality of his daughter’s fate.

Galadriel feels that sorrow.

She feels it in every part of her being, and yet she cannot speak of it. She and Elrond have many things in common, but they have independently decided not to speak of it to each other on this journey. The combined weight of their centuries of grief could drown the whole Ennorath, if left unhampered. They tend to avoid one another in knowledge that their hopes for what they will encounter in Valinor are both same in their intensities and different in their yearning. They keep them close to their chests, as they both understand that wishes unspoken can be declared insignificant, were they not to come true. A last line of protection for the weary _fëa_.

Galadriel spares a thought for her dear Celeborn - darling, wise Teleporno - and then a wish almost escapes her before she can stop it. Her breath shakes as she modifies the power the wish has, sends it instead as a prayer of longing into the sea.

_Let us meet again someday, meleth-nîn._

That is all she is comfortable with doing. After all the years she has lived, Galadriel understands the extent of her powers better than anyone, except perhaps Erú himself. Her powers are not to be trifled with, nor should they ever be used self-indulgently. She understands that she has more power than she possibly should have ever been given, and she would not influence another’s free will for the sake of her own selfish desires, even if the thought of never seeing Teleporno again makes something in her want to shrivel down and burn away simultaneously.

Galadriel shakes off the vague unpleasantness that always comes with acknowledging this part of herself and instead turns ahead, her gaze chasing the vague shapes looming in the distance, unsure whether they are anything more than apparitions and products of her wishful thinking. She focuses her thoughts onwards, towards the Undying Lands, the Lands of her other life, the Lands she was banned from entering ever again. Her spine stiffens momentarily with fear as questions haunt her.

_What if I am still turned away? What if the ban is not actually rescinded? What will I do then?_

The fear passes; she knows she is allowed into Valinor again.

_Am I welcome, though?_

That is the question that will not be answered until she is on the shores of Valinor. It cannot be answered by her at all, only by others. It is still the question that bothers and scares her in equal measure, although she would never admit it out loud, can barely admit it to herself. The apprehension does not leave her even as she does her best to push it away and give her full attention to another worry.

Celebrían.

Her eyes water with unshed tears as she thinks on her daughter. Her little Silver Queen, magnificent and lovely and thoroughly broken when they saw each other last. Saying goodbye to her daughter in Gray Havens was one of the hardest things Galadriel ever had to do, even as she knew there was never any other choice. Celebrían’s spirit had been mangled to such an extent that nothing in Ennorath would ever be able to help her.

Celebrían made the choice to sail, even as her family stayed and was consequently fractured. She made her choice, even when Galadriel told her what she had already known, but never admitted – that she will never see Arwen again. Elladan and Elrohir have never fully recovered from their mother’s choice, their hearts hardening as their grief-filled minds turned to hunting and eradicating the race of _Yrch_ that had taken away their mother. Arwen had spent centuries in Lothlórien with Galadriel, searching for a replacement for her own mother in Galadriel, her grandmother. And Elrond… darling Elrond. Son of legends and heir of kings. Always understanding, always responsible, always kind. After weathering so many losses already, and she dares not think on those losses, because they were hers as much as his, every single one of them family both blood ( _hers_ ) and chosen ( _his_ ), this last one was the one that killed a part of his soul brutally. It left an everlasting shadow obscuring his brow even on the happiest of days, never disappearing from his countenance, merely hidden away for a time here and there.

A comparison she made a long time ago between Elrond and Thranduil comes to mind, but she will not think of it. It is too painful, to remember one young _ellon_ with stars in his eyes, laughter in his face and crown of leaves in his hair, son of a friend, and another, with eyes of iron-gray and hair as dark as night, son of kin by blood and heart both. To remember how similar their losses have been, and how different the paths their spirits have chosen were is hard to contemplate, and harder yet not to regret and ask herself if more could have been done for either one of them.

Galadriel knows all this. She also knows her daughter made the best choice for herself in an impossible situation. She knows this without any doubt, and yet she wonders still whether Celebrían had a bit too much of herself, and not enough of Celeborn in her temperament when she left her family to fend for themselves so. For is that not exactly what Galadriel has done, over and over again, in choosing to follow her own heart’s desires?

She knows these thoughts are as important as they are hurtful, she knows there is something in them that she must face, just as she faced that cursed, freely offered Ring in Lothlórien. She knows there is a obstacle of some sorts to overcome in her own memories and mind somewhere, just as there was a hurdle with the temptation of fire and shadow. She knows there is something specific she must think about, but she is not yet ready to let go of the thoughts of her daughter.

_Millenia have passed, and I have not seen her. Celeborn may not_ ever _see her again. Ai, Celebrían. Are you well? Are you recovered? Have you been healed? Dare I hope?_

Galadriel holds all her powers inside her on a tight leash and speaks only the words of a mother’s hope, not words of a witch’s power. Anything more would be an abuse. She dares not reach for her daughter with her mind, even as their ship sails closer and closer to the borders of Middle-Earth’s end, even as her spirit feels a pull, even as she feels younger and more powerful than she has felt ever since Nenya’s power was spent.

Such thoughts as these, no doubt, plague Elrond also, but Galadriel cannot discuss this with him. They both cling to whatever tattered remains of hope they had salvaged from the depths of past despair, united in it but separated by a chasm of too many hurts they both bear like stains on their very souls, like curses, like chains, like _oaths_.

When they finally circumvent her mental distractions and come, the thoughts are battering rams on her psyche.

_Who shall I meet in Valinor?_ _Who shall be there to see me? Who of my kin_ is _in Valinor? Who of my kin has left the Halls?_

Galadriel’s breath hitches - a stutter in her lungs, a stutter in her thoughts, a stutter in the webbing of the world. The waves break on ship's hull, and she feels these thoughts as she feels the drops of sea-water on her face, not as parts of a whole, but as the whole in itself, each one of them more intruding and clearer than the last.

_Who am I?,_ she thinks as her eyes cloud. _Who of my kin is in Valinor?_ , she thinks, as wind blows in her hair. _Which one of_ them _shall I meet again?_ , she thinks, as her blood sings with long forgotten songs of fire and her heart falters on the edge of the icy chasm.

She is Lady Galadriel, Lady of Lórien, Lady of the Wood. She is the wife of Celeborn and mother of Celebrían. She is the former bearer of Nenya, the Ring of Adamant. She is the Lady of Light. She is Lady Galadriel, and she is tired and sailing and remembering.

_That is not all that you are_ , the waves around her seem to whisper. _That is not what you were,_ they say in a seagull’s scream, _and all that you were and all that you are, both and neither, make you, Lady_ , the water murmurs, and her heart suddenly lurches in motion, her chest too tight to contain its relentless pounding.

_I am not ready to think on this_ , she thinks, and the water answers, the water always answers her, the water has _always_ answered her. _The Lands of Healing_ , she hears said, and water pours from her eyes in shapes of crystalline tears, and the seas sing, and she remembers, and knows what is happening to her. Galadriel braces herself, she gathers the remnants of her will and decides to break her own heart all over again.

***

She is Galadriel, and she will always be Galadriel, but she has not always been Galadriel.

***

She is born in Valinor the Light of the Trees, amongst the last descendants of House of Finwë, and she doesn’t yet know that she is born into a bloodline that will be great, that shall always be _great_ , but not always good, oh no, not _good_ , for greatness and goodness are both blood-siblings and bitterest rivals, much like the brothers and sisters of her family, and they can walk hand in hand, but they are also capable of delivering to one another a fatal blow of betrayal.

She is born amongst the last of her cousins, and she is revered, and she is celebrated, and she is _loved_ , and she does not understand that the world as it is known is separating at the seams. She is young, and she does not know, she does not understand that the light is breaking, she does not see, she sees nothing, nothing at all, right up to the moment when she sees _everything_ and then it is way too late and doom is upon them all, and not one of them is safe from heartbreak and death.

She is born in Valinor under the Light of the Trees, and she is innocent and starry-eyed, and her father names her _Artanis_.

“My noble little nís,” atta says, and his eyes are shining and Artanis knows little of how in that moment he gave her the last of his battered heart. She knows even less of how she would break it completely into pieces, years pass, when she finally goes forward and her father turns back, and then another time, even though he thought further heartbreak to be impossible by then, when she stays and he goes back again. She laughs at her silly father and plunges her hands in his hair and hugs him close and her body sings with laughter, and he indulges her clumsy fingers as she unbraids and re-braids his hair, and the day is perfect and she thinks she could stay here, safe and happy in atta’s arms for forever.

She likes being called noble. Noble is good, noble is great, noble is admirable and she _is_ admirable, and she wants to be good, and wants to be great, and she _will_ be admired. She knows she will, for she is Artanis the Noble, and the Light of Trees shines in her hair, and she is lovely, and she is loved, and she loves. Everyone calls her Artanis, and she rejoices in those memories, delights in their excitement right up until she inevitably grieves for their sadness.

Memories float in the fog of her consciousness; she dives right in. Faces surround her, every one of them a patchwork of forgotten feelings and expressions. Voices fill the empty spaces in cacophony of mismatched sounds, and after so many centuries of suppressing everything, she remembers it all at once, and _Oh Elbereth it_ **_hurts_**.

“Lovely Artanis,” Kanafinwë says, twirling a lock of his hair while looking at hers contemplatively. “I will compose you a song for your begetting day, and it shall be as noble and as sweet as your mien!” His voice sharpening in exclamation and excitement, Makalaurë runs away with his harp, and verses are already forming and leaving his lips in a melody filled with joy, and her heart breaks like a voice in a song, because he ran away again at the end, but this time _he ran away forever_ , and she _left him there without searching for him_ , and because _his loving, haunting voice singing_ that _song shall weigh on her forever, and even though she has not heard it sung for over three Ages, she still hears echoes of it sometimes, when the wind blows from the sea._

“Noble, noble Artanis,” Irissë says, when she refuses a dance with a fair Vanyarin prince that her friend and cousin admired somewhat, and she smiles because yes, she _is_ noble, giving her loved ones the chance to something she maybe wants, but not as much as her cousin, and Irissë’s smile is light but still somehow mocking, the huntress looking at her with a foreboding knowledge that is escaping her and she does not understand, and Irissë finally rolls her eyes and gives Artanis a hug that feels too heavy and leaves to go dance, and her heart breaks because _the cousin she admires, the hunter she respects, the white lady she loves is left sullied and her smile is forever broken and her spirit abandoned in darkness with her light irrevocably extinguished._

“Silly Artanis,” Turcafinwë’s laughter is always loud and booming and it always makes her a bit happier than she is, and he is laughing as she plays with Huan, making a mess of her robes on the grass of Valinor. “It was noble of you to part with the last of your sweets,” and she has to laugh then because she knows Tyelko trained Huan to sniff out honey cakes and bring them back to his master, and now he stands with crumbs of honey on his tunic and his eyes are dancing as he watches her roll with Huan in the grass, unbothered and young and free and wild, and her heart breaks because _how many betrayals is one too many, before one is destroyed by the very ones they love the most_?

“Sing to us, Artanis,” Ambarussa say simultaneously, “Oh noble-” starts Pityafinwë, “-and beautiful,” finishes Telufinwë, and they curtsy and she cannot help but laugh at them, so she sings to her youngest cousins again, and Pityo is on her left and Telvo is on her right and she does not mind staying behind to take care of them, because they are both together and separate fascinating in their uniqueness and similarities, their eyes alive with queries about everything and anything, their movements and minds in perfect harmony, as if they posessed one _fëa_ divided into two _hröa_ and her heart breaks twice because they would not be separated even in death, and because _she loved them separately and together both fiercely once_.

“Spare me your nobleness Artanis,” Curufinwë says, when she offers to heal Tyelperinquar's bruised knees. “I will take care of my son, as - as will my wife,” he says, but his eyes flash towards hers for a moment, a heart-break and a plea and a thank-you all in one, a look she never saw on the one whose name he bore, and she understands, and she does not judge, and she nods and smiles and he looks so relieved as he kneels before his son and gently wipes his tears and murmurs platitudes, and his face is aglow with love unconditional and unlike anything she has ever expected to see in his expression, and it is beautiful and tragic and her heart breaks because _what is in a name but a curse and a destiny?_

“Little sad Artanis,” Turukáno says, and his eyes are gentle and his hands gentler on her weeping face, and he hugs her close to his body and dries her tears with his soft fingers. “My noble cousin, do not weep, for your heart will recover quickly, this I know, so let not any sorrow harden it,” and he is correct and not both, because her heart does recover then, but now it breaks again because she remembers how his sternness crumbled under Elenwë’s and Idril’s gentle ministrations and how the ice broke him and how _his heart never recovered_ , broken over and over again until the walls of Ondolindë were the only things protecting the remaining ragged shards of it, and because _those walls also collapsed in smoke and flame and evil and betrayal and took him down with them into doom immutable._

“You are lovely, Artanis,” Nelyafinwë says softly as he offers her his hand in the ballroom. She takes it and enjoys the eyes of the whole room on her, because he is tall and steady and beautiful, and his copper curls bounce off hers when she leans into him and remarks on something or other, and his laughter is happiness when he says “Thank you for nobly rescuing me from the scavengers, cousin,” with twinkling eyes and they dance and he spins her in circles and he is always steady and reliable, always the protector with a mind keen and resolute, but that night she feels for the first time the fire in Maitimo and basks drunkenly in its warmth and in that moment wishes for it to devour her too, and her heart breaks because _an inferno like that can only turn inward and mercilessly ravage itself irreparably in the end, when it has nothing else left around to destroy._

“Artanis, behind you!” Arakáno screams, and she turns around in a flash and cleaves through an Orc that thought to surprise her, and she turns back and he is right next to her, tall and proud, blood on his face and fire in his eyes, and they meet hers and they both know they love and yearn it shamefully, the clash of iron and the song of blood and the rush of battle, and his eyes widen slightly as she stabs her sword in his direction, viciously slaughtering another beast that thought to harm him from behind. “Noble Artanis,” he laughs and it is both a lovely and a terrible laugh, and she grins ferociously, a mirror-image to his expression, and turns away and then he is not beside her anymore and her heart breaks then and breaks again now because _those were the last words he ever said to her._

“Oh, will you relax, Artanis,” Morifinwë says, and his ink eyes are covered with his dark hair, and all his darkness matches all of her light in the extreme, and he offers her the bottle of spirits, and she knows he expects her to refuse and that is why she does not, so she sits next to him but away from the fire and drinks straight from the bottle and chokes on the vileness of the liquid and even his laughter is dark and seductive and makes her shiver as he whispers “Leave some for me, noble cousin,” and her cheeks are warm and the spirits burn just like his eyes do and they bridge their differences in that one moment and he is illuminated by the fire and she sits in the shadows and they both laugh freely and then her heart breaks because _how could they be anything else but what they were?_

“Forgive me, oh Artanis the Noble and Fair,” Findekáno yells as he pushes her into the water and she catches him by the arm, shrieks and pulls him down with her and they tumble together in a tangle of limbs and hair and rise from the water together and his hair is shining in gold of the Trees and his eyes are filled with laughter and her anger is hopeless when faced with the beauty of him so she laughs as he hugs her and lifts her from the water and carries her to the shore, to where they can lie in the fields and hold hands and bask in the warmth of the afternoon and her heart is set to burst from contentment one moment as she promises to best him in their battle of strength and wits both the very moment she outgrows him and then her heart breaks because _his body and spirit were both broken cruelly and betrayed callously and abandoned on a battlefield of horrors and tears both unnumbered and she was not there._

“Noble Artanis, gracing us all with her presence, at last,” Angaráto says in that perfectly condescending manner he mastered to perfection when he was very young, because he is older and in charge and emmë said he has to take her with him to the lake, and she feels like crying because she does not want to be a burden to her brother, and her eyes are already wet with tears when another voice chimes in, seemingly lighthearted. “Pay him no mind, Artanis,” Ambaráto says from behind her. “He was praising your very nobleness for half of last night to anyone who would listen, and to most who would rather not,” Aiko continues, his smile mischievous even as his voice carries a hint of warning she is too young to recognize then and his eyes flash briefly in Ango’s direction and he grasps her hand in his. Her spirits lift and she looks to her older brother in wonder. “Really?” She says happily, and Angaráto rolls his eyes but takes her other hand gently, and her heart breaks twice over and then once again for good measure, strained and pitiful, because the iron _crumbled_ and the fire _fell_ , and she was _not there_ , and she _could not_ forgive herself, _would not forgive herself for as long as she breathes, not ever, because when they both perished, she was not there._

“My noble Artanis,” she remembers Findaráto saying, and he had said it so often, many times in many different ways but somehow always and without exception fondly, that the memories overlap and fuse together and she does not know where one ends and another begins, “My little noble Artanis and her grand, noble ideas that will doom us all,” he flashes that heart-breaking smile of his as he lifts her in his arms and swings her around and kisses her gently, his golden hair a halo around his beautiful face, the face she loves so, the face she always loved and will always love, and then he runs ahead of her to implement another one of her schemes - perhaps to discretely acquire the freshest apples and share them only with her, or to choose the best seats for her to listen to the new musical productions, or perhaps to bring her the sweetest of honey-cakes, or to run away from his duties and instead braid her hair for hours and sing slowly as she reads, never tiring, always and ever gentle and loving and full of laughter that chimed like the bells in the wind and her heart breaks, finally and completely, because Ingoldo, her sweet, lovely Ingo who sang so delightfully for her and laughed so freely at her plans and yet always followed them was gone, gone, gone somewhere he could not follow her anymore, somewhere he could not shield her from the world anymore and her heart breaks again and again because _when he was taken away from her brutally and shoved in chains and when he **bled** and **suffered** and **died** **she was not there!**_

Artanis’ heart broke in all the ways one could imagine long ago, and it keeps breaking now, over and over again, just like the waves break viciously against the ship she sails on, unyielding and terrifying in their never-ending repetition, loud and constant, bringing with them endless questions and no comforting answers, as they guide the ship and her both to a final destination - the land where Artanis was born – the land where Artanis was made.

_Could I ever be Artanis again?_

Artanis was noble, and grand, and good, but she was also foolish, idealistic, and selfish. Artanis had three brothers and she loved them all fiercely, but she found a kindred spirit in the eldest only, and understood very little of the temperaments of the other two. Artanis sat on her atta’s lap and sang to him as he let her play with his lumionus hair for hours, but she went forward and left her father to go back. Artanis dreamed of all she would have for herself, of all she would do on her own, all that she would accomplish as an heiress of a King’s royal line. Artanis had three brothers and eleven cousins, and she once loved them all for everything they were and everything they could be, but she had favorites amongst them, and all her favorites’ fates were horrible in the end. Artanis knew the secrets of her cousins and did not judge them; she kept their secrets and felt loved, basking in that implied trust, but she never knew that trust did not need always go both ways, and could be manipulated malevolently and broken easily. Artanis dreamed of the glory of the House of Finwë, the siren call of adoration so loud, it sometimes kept her up at night, twisting and turning in her bed, wild-eyed and blasphemous, body shaking with _wanting_. Artanis dreamt of all the great deeds they would accomplish, together and on their own, and the sum of their deeds would be as great and as extraordinary as they all were, because they were special; they were royalty; they were Finwëans. They were _everything_.

Artanis never knew they were a curse of their own, every one of them its own disharmony in the Music of the world, all of them cursed and a curse, all of them handsome and horrendous, all of them wonderful and terrible.

_Would I even_ want _to be Artanis again?_

Artanis was young and idealistic. Artanis thought she knew; she thought she understood.

Artanis was a fool.

Artanis knew _nothing_.

***

She is born in Valinor in the Light of the Trees to a father of the line of Finwë, a Ñoldo with golden hair who named her Artanis. She is born in Valinor in the Light of the Trees to a mother of the line of Olwë, Eärwen, the Teleri swan-maiden of Alqualonde with hair of starlight-silver and love in her heart for the sea. That love thrives inherited in her in a form tempestuous and wonderful both. Water answers to her, holds her dreams gently, grounds her and gives her solace.

She is born in Valinor, where the Light of the Trees shines in all around, but shines brightest in her hair the color of Laurelin and Telperion both, where she has three older brothers that she loves both gently and forcibly, and eleven cousins and half-cousins that she laughs and fights and loves and cries with, where all the waters speak to her and feed her and mold her and teach her until she grows to be as tall as any _nér_ , and her mother names her _Nerwen_.

She likes her amilessë less than she likes her father-name, for what does her stature have with who she is to be? If nobody else does, she knows that _hröa_ is not as revealing and important as _fëa_ , and her _fëa_ is what she is most proud of, what she wants everyone to see. Not her beautiful face, not her radiant hair, not her tall stature. Having a form pleasing to the eye is helpful only insofar that others wish to be near her and hear her songbird voice when she speaks because they like to watch how she moves and the cadence of her speech. It is a double-edged sword, because they may hear what she says, but they rarely _listen to what she means_. She wants them to listen. She _needs_ them to listen. She resents her mother for this, because she is young, and she does not _know_.

She is young, and she will learn, and when she learns, she will wish to have never even wondered.

“Nerwen, watch out!” The shout comes at just the right time, Angaráto’s voice booming even in the vast cacophony of the Helcaraxë, and she turns to run just as the ice beneath her starts to break and she is cold and she is weary and she feels nothing of the fire that pushed her to go onwards and leave her father and mother and Valinor behind, and the ice is breaking as she runs and the cracks follow her path in a spider-web pattern that makes her ill and she runs and not even the exertion of the _hröa_ can warm her anymore and she runs and runs and runs away from home and the cracks in fire and ice and towards where she can see her brothers’ and Laurefindelë’s horrified faces, and she knows before it happens that the ice will break completely, and it does, and she looks to her brothers and in a terrifying breath the world stands still and everything is silent and they are both so precious to her and she loves them because they would never betray her and then she is falling, sinking through the ice and she feels cold but she always feels cold these days and she feels like she is sinking and she is, but she is in the water and water always speaks to her and she does not even contemplate letting go, because she is strong and she will not fail, she will give nobody the satisfaction of her falling, of seeing her failing, and she fights and the water supports her and the water holds her and the water is as cold as her heart is getting to be cold, and then arms catch her and pull her up and Aikanáro holds her and shushes her as she expels water from her lungs and Laurefindelë is bundling Angaráto in a blanket as he fights not to let go of her hand as tremors wreck his wet body and they are all shaking and Aiko murmurs “my brave Nerwen, my strong Nerwen” in her hair like a plea and a prayer, and it is then that the fire in her once again rekindles as she hugs him and clutches Ango’s hand weakly and she promises to herself and to whomever else may be listening that she will not fail them, she will never fail them, never again.

“I do not know what to do,” Ereinion says, and his eyes are those same eyes she remembers from her youth and days long past and they always bring her joy, but now they are devastated with pain too great for even an immortal to bear and she can scarcely look at him without wanting to break down into pieces, to scream and wail and roar with grief and rage, because they lost so much and they lost it all so quickly and everything is changed. After everything, yet another Shadow rises and looms over Middle-Earth and they will have to fight again and fight better and fight on their own against the abomination of a being who has no leash anymore and wishes only revenge, its culmination being the total annihilation of the Firstborn. The horror of what that hateful servant of the Enemy has done to the one so pure, to their own flesh and blood, how he deceived the one he called ‘friend’; another disaster in the history that repeats itself for a thousandth time in a boundless circle of evil and betrayal that follows her bloodline. The dread she feels is unbearable in its abhorrence, the macabre sight of Celebrimbor’s body strung on a pole makes her blood run cold and her heart bleed venom, and she feels her spirit almost burning on the very edges of its existence but she _cannot_ let herself go, especially not now, because she knows what it would mean to loosen that part of herself upon the world. There had only ever been one other with that kind of power in her line, and she almost curses his name and his creations but then remembers the one she mourns now and cannot bring herself to display that level of hypocrisy. “Tell me what to do, please, aunt Nerwen, teach me how to be strong and stand tall, stand _at all_ , when my spirit feels as bloody and dead as…” and he chokes on the last word and is unable to say more, but his eyes are overflowing with grief and a sob escapes him and the floodgates open so violently that she finds herself on her knees on the floor as he collapses in dread and grief, weeping and clutching two rings of exquisite craftsmanship in his hand like the most precious things he possesses, and she holds him tightly and does not look at the ring on her finger and weeps silently with him, because they share blood and within that blood they share the pain, and for him, because she knows that no matter the amount of strength one has, it will ever be enough in moments like these.

“Tell me, Nerwen,” Queen Melian says, because she asked the Queen to call her that instead of Artanis, because she could not, would not be called Artanis anymore, “What happened with your kin, that even your strength falters when they are mentioned?” and it is not the first time she asks, nor is it to be the last time, but Nerwen freezes then as she freezes always when the powerful Ainu asks, her body immobile, her eyes fearful, her hands shaking, and she knows she should tell her friend and benefactor everything that has happened, if only in repayment for her kindness and acceptance and tutelage given freely, because why not? Why not tell the whole tale of the Exile of the Ñoldor? A betrayal repaid by a betrayal, and nobody would blame her if she were to do so, but even as she thinks it she knows that is a lie, she knows _she_ would blame herself, because she still loves them and she is still better than them, so she will not speak and she will not reveal their greatest shame in front of her mentor and friend, and she cannot speak of her kin because they all failed and they are all twisted and they have all proven their weakness and she refuses to be reminded of it and refuses to be considered weak even only by association, and they are all less than they were and they are all different from what they were supposed to be and she still loves them and it hurts too much to think, much less to speak of them and she is still too angry to be fair and just in recanting the whole tale of the acts and deeds that brought only death and sorrow, so she demures and hides her face under the curtain of her hair and begs off answering and feels awful for concealing the truth, but she cannot, _will not_ say, and Melian looks at her, the Queen’s shifting eyes knowing and troubled, but she lets it go this time and so many times before and so many times after and takes her hand and shows Nerwen another way to read the magic of the water in the streams of the forests of Doriath and she can almost leave all the pain and all the hurt aside and wander the forests protected by Melian and pretend, when she closes her eyes, that all is well and she is still walking in Gardens of Lórien in Valinor.

“My darling, lovely Nerwen, you were always the strongest of us, if not the quickest,” says Finrod in Nargothrond as he ducks her attempt at a playful slap, and she laughs at his easy acceptance of defeat in the game with figurines that they never play anymore, because it is never as fun to play only with two instead of complete four, and this thought hurts more than any physical ailment ever could and they both know it, but tonight they are finally together after centuries spent apart and the wine is good and the summer is almost upon them and the figurines are beautifully carved and their shapes have almost-familiar faces on them and Finrod’s smile is easy and beautiful and he is a King in his own right and her heart is filled with so much pride it feels like weeping and dancing both, but Nerwen does not weep anymore, and dancing has long since stopped being enjoyable, so she slaps her brother’s hand lightly and resets the board only southerly and northerly, setting the Queen figurine with golden-silver hair in front of her as he sets his golden-haired King in opposition, and as they play and talk and try to trip one another in a game of skill and tactics it is only his eyes that betray the depth of his pain, the pain awful and all-consuming and matching hers in every breath they take, as they always have matched each other in everything, as the eastern and western parts of the board stay empty and unused, lacking two more sets of figurines, and that emptiness becomes more poignant with every passing hour. She stays with him then, stays for months and is astounded by his accomplishments and the life he made for himself and all the good he does, and she can almost pretend that his familial love is the only one she has ever known, instead of being the only one she has left. When he kisses her brow as that final dawn breaks in kaleidoscope of orange and blue above them and murmurs “Goodbye, Nerwen,” every part of both her _hröa_ and _fëa_ scream at her not to let him go, to keep him with her for all times, and his hair is gentle on her cheek and he smells of lavender and safety and sorrow and she wishes, like she always does, that they were both a little less bright than they were, a little less similar and just a little less tragic.

“My Lady,” he says, and he is beautiful and ethereal and fair and otherworldly and Tyelpë looks at him with gentleness and admiration and she is afraid, because he speaks eloquently and speaks passionately, his words flowing like his gold strands of hair flow around him as he walks and as golden strands flow through Celebrimbor’s fingers in the forge and both these things tangle in her mind suddenly in a vision that is horrifying in its beauty and makes her want to scream and tear her hair out and mourn simultaneously and she is afraid and she does not believe him and the ill feeling she has makes her lose composure and makes her feel untethered but there is never anything factual to support this feeling and she is left feeling powerless and she hates it, and that only makes her distrust him more. “You object to my moniker of Lord of Gifts, but you wield many, my Lady Nerwen,” and she hates how that name sounds like mockery in his song-like voice, sounds weak, and he enrages and perturbs with such fervor that she can feel her _fëa_ recoil from his very presence, and she knows that Gil-Galad and Elrond are wary of him too, they speak of it amongst themselves and they all try to speak of it to Tyelperinquar, but he never listens because he is good and kind and trusting in a way his father never was, and he is better for that selflessness but she thinks he is also worse for it, because she cannot see anything in the waters when she looks, her magic fails to provide any answer whenever she asks about Annatar and she is so very afraid. “Our names tell much about us, do they not? Will you not stay and tell me of yours, oh Lady noble and strong?” He phrases it as a question but she knows it is not one, and she cannot take it anymore, cannot be in his presence and not act out in a manner unbecoming, and she will not lose composure and give him the satisfaction of seeing it, so she does not spare him even a glance as she turns and leaves to try to find Celebrimbor and talk some sense into him, knowing it to be a pointless endeavor but uncertain as what else she is to do, because her hands are shaking and she has not been this afraid, this _terrified_ ever since she faced Morgoth for the last time.

“Oh Nerwen, call me Fingon, we must uphold the laws of the Kingdoms we dwell in,” he says, and his eyes are shadowed and he is paler than ever but his hair is still delicately braided in gold and his happiness is muted and she hugs him close and holds him tight and does not believe her luck in meeting him here on the road, her halfway to Nargothrond, he halfway from Himring, and he holds her like he thinks she will disappear if he lets her go and laughs as if surprised when she scolds him for losing weight, and says “Not every one of us can be as strong as you Nerwen, but Mai- ah, our cousins in Himring did send me off with a feast,” and his cheeks redden and she cannot help the knowing smile that steals into her expression even with all the accumulated hurt that threatens to erupt behind it, because they both know there has been too much pain between their Houses, too much hurt for there not to always be a darker undertone to their interactions, but she is tired of the strife and she wants, just for a moment, to pretend nothing is wrong, even when she knows that everything is and will be for a long time, perhaps for forever, to pretend this is but another chance meeting in Valinor, both of them happy, innocent and unmarred by evil and grief, both of them free to love and take care of one another. She wishes this pretense was real so much, she decides not to indulge in her ever-present anger and hurt and instead smiles mischievously at him, and he sees that smile and all it implies and understands and is relieved when he plays along and blushes and laughs back, and she is so overjoyed to have seen him that she does not dispute his words, because if anyone is strong, it is Fingon. She knows what he did for Maedhros and she knows what it must have cost him, and she feels a strange foreboding when he touches her face, ghosts of pain around him in shadows and gold in his hair in shape of a crown, but she says nothing and does not ask him to call her anything other than Nerwen and takes his hand and convinces him to make camp together and stay for almost a month there, by the road, in the middle of Beleriand, and they walk and they hold hands and they speak constantly but never of their hurts and they pretend all is well, and she could never and will never bring to regret the fright she gave her brother, delaying her arrival to Nargothrond, because how could she, when that is the last time she ever braids the gold in his obsidian hair?

“What say you?” Eönwë says, and he is standing in front of her and atta – _atta_! - is behind him but Arafinwë, High King of the Ñoldor in Valinor, says nothing, his face expressionless, and she cannot look at him because she knows she failed him once already, so she looks at Eönwë and he is glorious and he is radiating Light and she remembers what she has almost forgotten, _how has she forgotten_?, that the Elves born in Middle-Earth lack that Light in their _hröa_ , how it shines outwards from the ones who are of Valinor, and knows she forgot because she sees less and less of it in herself, and Melian is long gone, and he is Ainur just like she was and his power is blinding and immense and he brought reinforcements to help and he brought _atta_ and perhaps They have not forsaken the Firstborn after all, maybe They still care, maybe it can finally be over and she can finally rest? “Will you go back, Lady Nerwen Arafinwiel?” He says then, and something stabs through her at his inflection, because nobody referred to her as such for so long and he is implying _something_ , because they have all forgotten but she starts to remember, and it all comes back, the cold, the despair, the contempt, the fire, the pain and the hurt and the horror and the questions of _where were They_ , the Strong and Mighty and Knowing, when her brothers and cousins were slain, _where were They,_ when one of Theirs destroyed them one by one, starting with her Un- with _Fëanáro_ and cursing the whole of their line, be they of blood or heart, _where were They_ when atrocities were committed and bodies were broken, _where were They_ when Elven blood soaked the grounds of Endor and desolation reigned over the Firstborn they claimed to cherish, hiding in Valinor while one of Their own reigned Death and Fire upon the world whole, _where were They_ when her whole family perished, and all these questions are but echoes of the most important one, the one she dares not answer but dares ask herself even less - _where was **she?**_ Eönwë stands before her, proud and glorious, her father stands beside him, silent and expressionless, and Celeborn stands beside her, steady and true, and he will let her go if she so decides, this she knows, but she is not letting _him_ go, she is _not_ ; she is not going to run back with her tail between her legs, not _ever_ but especially not now, when Enemy is dealt with and there is peace and she can finally accomplish what she came here to do, now that there is no Shadow of Darkness anymore. Nerwen opens her eyes but says nothing, but the Ainu understands words unspoken flashing in her eyes and nods solemnly and turns away, and she looks at atta and he straightens his posture, his expression unreadable but his eyes sad, and he is never more the High King Finarfin and is never less her father than in that moment, but she turns away before he can and there stands Celeborn and she brings his hand to her mouth for a kiss and her smile is terrible and she is _not leaving_.

“You did the right thing, My Lady,” the voice is an undertone filled with respect that makes her smile against her will and pulls her from her melancholy faster than anything else ever could, and he comes and stands beside her and she watches him as he watches the stars. His shape is different but she knows him, she has known him always, ever since she was a precocious youth wandering the meadows of Valinor where he spoke to her gently and lovingly, and taught her how to appreciate every living thing and how to always have pity and some of those lessons she forgets but he always reminds her and never condemns and always forgives, and he looks different but she knows his spirit everywhere, no matter the shape he takes, no matter the name he bears, for he is always Olórin, her dearest friend and confidante, and she looks at him standing beside her in Caras Galadhorn, an emissary of the Valar clad in blinding white and finally allowed to let more of his power show after defeating Fire and Flame, but still her friend, still mischievous, sensible and thoughtful, and she takes his hand as he looks at her and she suddenly gets the urge to sing, an urge she has not had in a long time, and hope curls around her heart as her palm curls around his, gnarled and skilled and cold, and she wishes to warm him so she steps closer and tucks herself under his chin because not many are taller than her and this way she feels safest and his beard touches her face and Tilion passes above them and light of Elbereth shines upon them and she wishes she were at peace but she knows she cannot be. She mourns for him still, illogically, even though she feels him against her, she still needs to touch, to know he is not gone, to know there is still hope, because he always gives her hope, and he knows this and his kiss lingers on her brow and she closes her eyes as he holds her, and his power and love subtly wash over her, much like the waves of river above which they stand, and night is calm and her heart is not, and his kiss lingers still as he whispers “Courage, Nerwen, courage, my dearest,” and she closes her eyes so that he would not see her cry, and she does not cry even when he leaves again, and this could be the final time they meet but she does smile, even if it is a brittle and sour smile, because he always tells her he loves her smile best, and she will always do everything in her power to give him love and courage.

“Please, I am begging you, Nerwen,” her mother says softly into her hair. “Please, reconsider your decision,” emmë begs brokenly, her whole body evidently shaking, and she sees this in the mirror, the tiny, almost involuntary tremors, and her heart breaks for her mother, but she knows she cannot and will not relent. Emmë’s hands are gentle in her hair, the only remnant of the Light of the Trees that still remains in Valinor with both Laurelin and Telperion, and Fëanáro’s Silmarils gone, and she feels the love her mother bears her in every careful twist and caress as she combs through her long tresses of hair that shimmer like the refracted light on the surface of the sea her mother loves so dearly. Everything is dimmed in Valinor these days, the people and the feelings and the lights, and the only fire she feels, now that the forges are abandoned and banners drawn, now that Un- _Fëanáro_ declared himself and his plan to everyone openly, now that they have all been divided irrefutably, is the fire for change, the yearning for distant shores and for a realm to call her own, for a place where she can prove to everyone what she can do, what she can _be_ , without outside interference, on her merits and her merits alone _._ Her father is going, and so are her brothers, and she will not be cowered, she will not be left behind like some cowardly, weak _nîs_. She is Ñoldo royalty, and she will lead her people, and she will lead them well, and they will listen to her. “Please, Nerwen, by your love to me, please _stay_ ,” her mother whispers softly, her voice finally breaking as her hands tangle in the radiance of Nerwen’s hair. Thes plea wounds her heart and she almost crumbles under the pain emmë projects, because she does love her mother, she loves her whole family, she loves them all and even with all that love divided, she has even more, an infinite source within her from which she has so much more love to give. Her waver is but a moment’s weakness, because love is simply not enough on its own and her heart is not in Valinor anymore, not wholly, and her spirit feels the feverish need to leave, to move, to go. She is proud, and strong, and self-willed. She is noble, and good, and she will be _great_. Her destiny lies across the seas; she is no longer bound to Valinor. She will follow her father and her brothers and her cousins, she will lead their people, just as she said she would, just as she promised, she will go to Endor and make a life there, she will be wonderful and admired, she will be something else, something other, something _magnificent_.

Nerwen hugs her mother closely, envelops her lesser stature with hers carefully, as if to spare her from further hurt, and still breaks her emmë's heart when she says steadily: “No.”

_Would she ever be Nerwen again?_

Nerwen never listened. Nerwen was what they called her when they needed strength, and they looked upon her to be the source of it. Nerwen was what they called her when times were darkest and they needed her to shine like a beacon, to take away their fears with her stalwartness, to lift them up, to prove that she would not crumble, that her height and her durability were not merely for show, that she was aptly named. Nerwen was what they called her when they needed her to be powerful, and durable, and determined, and enduring, because _they_ could not be; not on their own, not without her, perhaps not ever. Nerwen was what they called her when they wanted reassurance that she would stand as tall and as immovable as a tree, her roots so deep in the ground, they too would stay by their grace grounded; that from the bottom of her roots to the top of her gold-silver crown, she would guide them in Light, steady and unfaltering like the Trees. Nerwen was what they called her when they needed certainty that there was one thing in Aman that would not be destroyed.

_Could she even be Nerwen again?_

They were fools. All of them who ever called her such. Pitiful, loving fools.

Nerwen was never as strong and unyielding as they made her out to be. They thought her best at standing steady and grounded and unmovable. Fools. Nerwen was best at running away and hiding.

Nerwen crumbled as easily as the Trees did when faced with Darkness.

***

She steps on the soil of Middle-Earth for the first time and some of the ice melts; she stands in Lothlórien and listens to the music of the forest tell the forgotten tales; she passes through Khazad-Dûm and the warmth of the stone awakens her spirit; she dwells in Nargothrond and pretends to be at peace; she sits on a bench in Imladris and laughs freely at her grandchildren’s antics; she arrives in Lindon and laments for the sea; she visits Greenwood and recoils from the Darkness in it; she thinks of Calenardhon and decides to help; she walks through Eregion and loves the sounds of the forges; she comes to Doriath and meets Celeborn.

Celeborn is beautiful and kind and wise, with will of mithril underneath his easy smile, and she is suddenly overjoyed and overwhelmed, and he asks for her name and she cannot give him either one of hers, because those names are histories tragic and awful, and she would not have him know her by them, and she is horribly ashamed and wishes to be someone else, someone less complicated, someone not cursed, someone better, and she pulls her hand away as not to mar him with her taint but he holds it firm in his, and his eyes look into her soul.

“Alatáriel,” he says kindly, “I would call you Alatáriel, for you are a queen of radiance and joy, and as your hair is a beacon to my eyes, so is your spirit a beacon to my soul.”

Her heart soars and she has never known a feeling like this, and she thinks nothing can ever compare, and she is right, and she holds his hand and they walk through the forests of Doriath and she is never more glad than when he holds her close, and she thinks to herself _I am unworthy of thy love_ but says to him “Yes. I could be Alatáriel.”

She feels the truth of the words as they are spoken, and his answering smile steals her breath and whatever is left of her heart that she has not already given freely and willingly, and from that moment on, she is Alatáriel and she is happy.

He calls her Alatáriel a thousand times in a thousand different ways and she falls in love with every single one every single time. He teaches her the language of his people and lets her teach him the forbidden one of hers in the shine of Tilion’s pass, and he allows her to call him Teleporno and she allows him to know all of her, and gives him all her names and all her woes, and inexplicably he loves her when he knows her, and she tells him about the Trees and about the Doom and about her wishes and her dreams and her foolishness and her naivete and her power and her rage and he does not cower, nor does he leave. Celeborn holds her hand as gently as he holds her heart and walks side by side with her and she has never known such joy and understanding.

He tells her: “You can be anything,” and she aches to believe it.

He tells her: “You are more than the scattered pieces of you,” and she almost believes it.

He tells her: “You are whoever you wish to be,” and she wishes to believe it.

He tells her: “ _Meleth-nîn_ ,” and she finally believes _him_.

“Then I will be Alatáriel to you, and only you, and Galadriel to all the others,” she says, and he is most noble and beautiful in his delight, and she scarcely believes he is as wholly hers as she is his.

Galadriel holds Celeborn’s hand in hers and rules in Lindon; she holds his hand and welcomes old friends reborn as Gandalf and Glorfindel; she holds his hand and does not fight in Doriath; she holds his hand and bears him a daughter; she holds his hand and rules in Lothlórien; she holds his hand and weeps for Celebrimbor and Gil-Galad; she holds his hand and walks in Imladris; she holds his hand and laughs under the stars; she holds his hand and establishes Caras Galadhorn; she holds his hand and breaks in half for Celebrían; she holds his hand and wakes up screaming when memories overwhelm her; she holds his hand and destroys Dol Guldur; she holds his hand and marries him; she holds his hand and assembles the White Council; she holds his hand and wishes her brothers were there; she holds his hand and sends the fog to Éothéod; she holds his hand and watches Elladan, Elrohir and Arwen grow; she holds his hand and wears only Nenya and his ring on hers; she holds his hand and sings to the stars; she holds his hand and soothes his pains and rages; she holds his hand and refuses the temptation of the One Ring; she holds his hand and hopes; she holds his hand and breathes; she holds his hand in both of hers and wishes never to let go, even as she knows she must.

She is Galadriel, and she finally learns to listen.

She is Galadriel, and she is not afraid to asks and debate and sometimes even concede.

She is Galadriel, and she is immensely strong in will and even stronger in magic.

She is Galadriel, and she tries to make things right and makes horrible mistakes.

She is Galadriel, and she tries to bury the ghosts, but ghosts do not answer to the living.

She is Galadriel, and she wills herself to forgive pains and betrayals.

She is Galadriel, and she is noble and admired and strong.

She is Galadriel, and she is called both Lady of the Light and Witch of the Wood.

She is Galadriel, and she is revered and wise and loved.

She is Galadriel, and she knows Elves, Men and Dwarves alike are terrified of her.

She is Galadriel, and she can almost convince herself that the worst is over.

She is Galadriel, and she knows the worst is yet to come.

***

_… she stands on the ship and she lies under the Trees as the wind howls like a beast and the seas howl in tandem of agony and everything blurs before her eyes - are her eyes open? the eyes are not here the eye is NOT HERE - everything fogs in her mind and she cannot separate it, they are not to be separated, they are one, they are same and simultaneous and completely different and she thinks she is crying - am I noble, mother - am I fair, father - am I strong, lover - am I wise, oh brother mine - but she may also be laughing instead and both of these are terrible sounds she can taste on her bloodied tongue - her tongue as filthy as the tears in her armor as she slaughtered and loved and birthed and unmade - I hold his hand and I am NEVER THERE - waters swirl and she sees all that is all that was all that is never to become real - she holds his hand and lets him go - she is around here and there she is everything at once and here she is never again - she was never there and she was always near - the winds shriek and her hair unravels and is SWALLOWED by her kin - they used to laugh and hunt now they betray and slaughter - curse on them all mighty and strong - the ships burn and she burns and ice burns and she burns and she burns and SHE BURNS - the echoes scream at her in a vortex of malevolence and she hears herself laugh and the Enemy’s laughter is the mocking laughter of her daughter – are you courageous, WITCH, are you ready to tear out your lungs and beg and scream the prayers and penance - the Silmarils are laughing at her and they bear the faces of all those she used to love - she loves them still as the waters are still - I hate them I hate Them they took too much - the Music is TAINTED the Music is gone the Music embraces her and tears out her spine - she smells atta’s voice and eats emmë’s tears and lives Ingo’s sacrifice and weeps Ango’s pride and sings Aiko’s flame- I lost them all running in the trees that were not trees that were stone that were friends that were golden – she lost the battles she won the war she lost faithfully she won faithlessly - I NEVER HAD FAITH – a lie is to lie to lie beneath the Trees - she holds his hand and runs away - we were great we were everything we were the greatest - death and desolation PAINS her so she runs - NO - but she stays - NO - but she knows better she knows - BETTER - shadow and shapes of monsters under her feet and in the mirror broken - look into my eyes HE SAYS - look into the Eye and you will be great - she is fair and she is noble and she fails - take my hand and take my life - she can fight she WILL fight - she sees the seas beyond and she cries blood and they will all fight until the world is no more and they will never rest and she will not burn she will NOT - she feels the scream of the whole realm as Barad-dûr falls to ruin and as the world finally BREATHES OUT -_

\- Galadriel breathes in.

Disorientation holds her for a moment and she knows not where she is, but then the stars shine above her and she feels the love of Elbereth as she sails on Ulmo’s waters and basks in the radiance of life around her and the salt of the air and the vibration of the ship below her feet. Laughter bordering on hysterics tears itself out of her chest and hot tears blur her vision but she need not see anymore, because she knows now, she finally knows, she _understands_ what she never understood before.

All the pains and heartbreaks she suffered throughout her eight millennia in Aman are clear as water of Kheled-zâram in her mind. All the choices and all the mistakes she made, regardless of their circumstances, they were always ultimately hers alone. All the things she ever and never did - every person she ever loved, if only for a moment, in any way - anyone and anything that she ever pitied, admired, cursed, hated - anyone that ever touched her thoughts, every single one of them, without exception – they all made her exactly who she is.

They made her into Her who is Artanis and Nerwen and Alatáriel and Galadriel and all of them together and inseparable and separated and always, always intertwined.

_It was always a matter of “and”_ , she thinks to herself.

She is not just one or one of the others, she is all of them, and all of them are terrible and wonderful, and so is she, and age brings comfort, but it also brings understanding. She is all of these things and she tried her best, and she made mistakes, and she is immortal and her body still shines with the Light and she survived, and she still did horrible things in inaction and action both, and she did not falter before Temptation like the only one who was her equal did, and she was wise in knowledge and she was not wise in sagacity, and she listened and she learned and she adjusted and pleaded and reconsidered and judged and forgave, and she failed and she rose from defeat, and she aided where she could and she did her best and she always, always _loved_.

The realization is pain and love and benediction and forgiveness, and it weighs heavier than any crown she has ever worn and is simultaneously lighter than any Elvish robe she wove in Lórien. It makes her _fëa_ want to sing and fly in certainty of its joy and perfection of her understanding.

She was Artanis and she was strong-willed and selfish and she chose what she thought was best; she was Nerwen and she lied to herself constantly and to others occasionally and she tried to be her best with every breath she took; she was Alatáriel and she was impatient and misguided and she defended everything and everyone she could as best as she could; she was Galadriel and she was distant and untouchable and incomprehensible to Mortals and revered by Immortals and she was tired and she loved her family and her friends and her home, and she loved all the People of Middle - Earth best.

She thought all her love was gone – squandered away in pain of battles and chains and ice and deaths and fire a long time ago, thrown away and spent on her favorites, on her beloved ones, her betrayers and her heart-breakers and her oath-breakers and her closest-of-kin, used up like a water-well brought to permanent state of drought because it has been used and abused until it had no water more to give. She thought the agony of loss she experienced left her barren and lacking in love. She thought she had no more love to give.

She laughs loudly then, laughs at her own silliness and short-sightedness – the veil made of her misery and self-pity and moroseness has finally been pierced and lifted, and she sees clearly again.

She is Artanis and she stands on the helm of the ship and laughs in the wind; she is Nerwen and she is not afraid to be weak with anticipation; she is Alatáriel and she refuses the temptation; she is Galadriel and she _will_ heal.

She understands.

She has so much love to give, still.

She is ready to come home.

***

Night has already come and gone when Olórin and Elrond join her quietly on the helm of the ship sailing for Valinor. Olórin stands on her left and Elrond stands her right and they all three put one hand on the wooden rail in synchronization. She shakes her head softly to rid herself of the feeling of being half-awake in a dream. She looks at their hands, free of any jewelry, free of the Three, free of the shadows and free of any additional power – the only power they wield now is their own and comes from whatever is within them that Eru Ilúvatar decided to bestow upon them. Their hands, side by side, are similar and different; a fragile one; an unmarred one; a trembling one. With those hands they wielded love and pain; they built and ruined; they caressed and forged; they healed and bled; they shaped present and past and future. They were the Ringbearers, and their time is passed. They are finally allowed to seek rest.

They can be whatever they wish to be now.

They are all three quiet; there is no need for words. The rhythmic crashing of the waves sounds like the sweetest melody, almost within reach but never quite complete.

Galadriel takes their hands in each one of hers and stands on the helm of the ship taking them to Valinor, and finally, freely, fully - _breathes_.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading this. I tried to stay within boundaries of canon, but given that canon is, ah, itself not sure what it is, some things are my own headcanons. I had a list of things I wanted to address, but I swear my brain is mush after 2 full days of revising this and I am unable to can. If there's sth you're interested in, need clarification on, or just wanna chat about, hit me up here or on tumblr - [EffervescentDragon](https://effervescentdragon.tumblr.com) / :)
> 
> Thank you for reading! Any comments are appreciated :)
> 
> p. s. did you catch all the ships I tried to subtly imply here? :D


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